


Wolf's Brother

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-11
Updated: 2007-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:23:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Murray and Roger MacKenzie go a hunting. The title, "Wolf's Brother," is Ian's Mohawk name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf's Brother

**Author's Note:**

> This story would not be fit to read without the help of my subject-matter/edit betas, way2busymom and moonmelody (on LJ). My undying gratitude to you both, Belinda and Jess. I hope Nokomis enjoys this story as much as I enjoyed working with you.   
>  Please excuse the half-assed attempt at Ian and Roger's Scottish accents. I really didn't attempt to make them believable, but rather threw in the odd word so they wouldn't sound totally stilted. Enjoy, honey. I loved writing this.
> 
> Written for Nokomis

 

 

Ian preferred to hunt alone along the ridge. Rollo wouldn't be left behind under any circumstances, but then Ian didn't really have to keep up an endless flow of meaningless conversation for the sake of politeness. Months after his return, Ian was still re-acclimating himself to the intricate rules and expectations of polite company.

But, for some reason, Roger had insisted on accompanying him and was now thrashing through the woods behind Ian, trying to keep up. Ian suspected an ulterior motive to Roger's request, but wasn't going to make it easy on him.

It wasn't so much that Ian disliked Roger's company. It was more a matter of the two men having very little in common other than their love of the Fraser's and their home. Jamie had once asked Ian if he held any hard feelings toward the man for practically forcing him into a decision to live with Mohawk. Ian was taken aback by the question, having not really given it much thought.

"I dinna ever think it was Roger Mac's fault, Uncle Jamie," he'd answered. Then, after a moment of silence, "I guess that decision might have already been made in m' mind, even before the fight that night."

Jamie seemed to have accepted Ian's word on the matter, but Ian still caught Roger watching him intently sometimes, green eyes searching either for understanding, forgiveness, or both. Perhaps Roger Mac had finally decided to approach the subject head on.

There had been a tense stillness on the ridge these last weeks and days of late spring, like the world itself waited breathlessly for the outcome of Malva Christie's vicious accusations. It had been a week since Ian had confided in Claire the possibility that Malva's unborn bairn could be his own. Now that it was spoken, released to the universe, Ian could wish he'd kept his council. Dwelling on the possibility only reminded him of the other children he should have had. Although the ridge had greened up and the sweet smells of flowering honeysuckle and Auntie Claire's bee hives had announced the coming of summer, Ian could not bring himself to celebrate the end of winter, scarcity and the lack of fresh food.

A clatter off to his right told Ian that Rollo had found something of interest for his mid-day meal, but he didn't follow the sound, staying on the smooth trail that led to the creek, a well known watering hole for the local fauna. Roger brushed his shoulder as he caught up and strode abreast down the packed dirt path.

"It's warmer than I thought it'd be." Roger's voice cracked a bit on the first word, as it usually did.

Ian turned his head at Roger's words, but didn't reply. He hefted his gun over his left shoulder, giving Roger more room and pointed through the trees to the north.

"I killed my first wild hog in a clearing through there. They seem to like this area, so be watchful."

Ian knew there was nothing within worrying distance, else the birds wouldn't be putting up such a clatter, scolding them for disturbing the peace of the forest. Or maybe it was Rollo they were after, as the large dog trotted proudly out of the trees and in front of the men, a large pheasant dangling from his mouth, legs and neck loose and quite dead. For such a large brute, Ian had noticed he'd quite a soft mouth when it came to carrying game.

"We should be so lucky," Roger joked and smiled and Ian couldn't help but return it.

"We will be."

By mid-afternoon they'd reached the creek and settled themselves on the opposite bank from the trampled mud pit indicating the herd's preferred spot for watering. The shade of a large willow kept them cool, as did the pot of beer being passed between them while they waited. Ian'd left the house earlier than he needed, hoping to have some time alone to think and argue with God, but now he had to share the much coveted space with Roger while they waited for dusk and the approach of the animals.

Ian waited patiently and was amazed to find Roger Mac doing the same. He'd not have placed the man for the kind to sit still for hours, content to bide his time in silence and nothingness. Ian'd be willing to bet his best skinning knife that Roger's mind wasna being so quiet.

To his surprise, Ian discovered it would be himself saying the first words to pass between them since they'd sat under the tree.

"So, I suppose Auntie Claire will have told you about me and Malva."

Roger tilted his head at Ian. "Aye, I suppose she did." He dropped the willow branch he'd been stripping and picked up a rock to toss in the running water. "But is wasna she who asked me to come traipsing out here with ye, Ian. That was my own doin'." Roger smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry I didna give you the peace and quiet you were hopin' for."

Ian had the good grace to flush, but his expression was good-natured and tolerant. "Having too much time in my head isn't always a good think, ya know, Roger Mac?"

Roger nodded and Ian somehow knew he really did understand. He coughed once and cleared his throat. Here it comes, Ian thought.

"I don't imagine it's always been easy for you...coming back to the ridge, I mean. Ye probably kin that Bree told me why you left the Mohawk."

Roger looked away, like he didn't want to watch Ian's face shutter off all emotions, replacing them with a look of wariness. Ian suspected his cousin would confide in her husband, but assumed the thing would stay silent between them all and he'd never have to speak of it again. Ian wasn't so much hurt that Brianna talked to Roger about Emily and Sun Elk and the reasons he'd turned his back on all of them, leaving Snaketown, as he was that Roger had taken it upon himself to come a preachin' to him about it.

Even Emily's Grandmother knew when to keep her opinions and advice to herself, secure in the fact that a sharp look of her dark eyes was enough to get her message across. As a whole, the Mohawk didn't require a lot of spiritual guidance. The Council was there to resolve disputes, provide advice (but only when asked) and make decisions for the village as a whole, such as when to raid or go to war. It had taken Ian awhile to get used to the lack of a priest, even though they were days from a church on the ridge. He supposed it was just knowing that there were others around who believed as you did. Shared your faith, your convictions and your morals. In that respect, Wolf Clan could never satisfy that tiny part of him he kept locked deep inside that wouldn't allow him to turn his back completely on his faith.

"It's not my place to judge or question, Ian," Roger said, as if anticipating Ian's reaction to this confrontation. "Mostly, I don't think I have the right to ask anything of ye except maybe your forgiveness. Twas my own doing that made it necessary for you to stay in the village and so I'm feeling more than a little responsible for any grief that stay has caused."

Ian refused to meet Roger's eyes, but the older man's words caused him to realize that Roger had been carrying around a wagon full of guilt all these years. Ian raked his fingers through his hair and sighed.

"Like I told Uncle Jamie, I never laid the blame at your feet, Roger Mac. If I didna want to stay with the Wolf Clan, I wouldna have volunteered." Now he did look up, meeting Roger's eyes in a steady gaze. "I think I was happier there with Emily and her people than I've ever been in my life. It's just been hard to understand... to kin what I did to make it all go wrong."

Ian watched Roger stand and walk toward the water a few feet before turning around to address him once more, like a congregation of one. He suspected Roger had finally worked himself up to the true reason for this little chat.

"When we...when men and their offspring are involved, Ian, there is no logic to be made of things. No matter what God you believe in...or pray too, no matter how you roll it over in your head, sometimes the ways of the universe can never be understood. So, I just wanted ye to know, Ian, you did nothing wrong to deserve punishment. And you did what we all do when we really and truly love. You did what you had to so Emily could find some happiness, maybe some relief from her grief of losing her children. And there's nothing wrong with that."

Roger coughed again, turning around to reach for the pot of beer on the ground. He took a long pull from the jug, but his gaze never wavered from Ian. When he was done, he handed it down to Ian and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

"Some might say it was blasphemy I speak when I say that sometimes God has nothing to do with what happens in our lives. Sometimes it's just about the act of living and going about our business that brings both the good and the bad down on us. Sometimes, we have no choice in the matter, at all."

Ian stared out over the water, sparkling and gurgling happily in the late afternoon sun. The animals would be coming to drink soon.

"I suppose sometimes it's easier to think that maybe we didna have a choice, eh?" Ian stood, too, and lifted the gun from its resting place against the tree. "If somehow I find that Malva's child is mine for sure...and it lives, do you not think that maybe God thinks I've paid my penance?"

Roger sighed and shrugged back into the wool jacket he's laid on the ground while they waited. Ian guessed the man was disappointed that he'd not been able to bring Ian the peace he was sure Roger and Bree were hoping for, but he'd decided a long time ago that with peace came complacency. Ian would never again take life for granted - the good or the bad.

They sat in companionable silence for another hour until the shadows lengthened and slowly the animals braved the open to quench their thirst.

"As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God."

Ian continued his vigil, not taking his eyes off the streambed where a buck was just beginning to sniff the air cautiously, gauging the safety for his does. But, he couldn't help it when he felt his mouth pull up on one side. Ian bit his lower lip to prevent a full on smile. He knew Roger wouldn't be able to keep from preaching at him.

An hour later, the two men were gutting and getting the buck ready to take back to the ridge for skinning and processing. The air reeked of entrails and shit, but they were used to life and death in these mountains and it seemed to Ian that he'd just proved his own theories to himself. Yes, he'd had a choice whether to not hunt and go hungry, or kill the deer and provide for himself and his people. He wondered if Roger Mac would ever understand that even when they have freewill, they do not. He supposed it was the lot of a preacher to want to ease the pain of his flock, but what he hadn't realized is that Ian did not want his pain eased.

Roger had returned from carrying the offal away from the creek so it wouldn't pollute the water and Ian was putting the finishing touches on the knots he made around the hooves of the buck, making it easier for the men to carry it back with a pole through the legs. Roger squatted beside him, silent for a moment.

"Ian," Roger said softly, his hand staying Ian's progress with the rope. "What was the name of the Indian...of the man in Snaketown who I killed?"

Ian dropped the end of the rope he was holding and rubbed his hands across the grass, leaving a trail of bloody slime. Roger's attempts to ease Ian's pain may not have been entirely successful, but perhaps there was still some good to come out of this day. It seemed Ian was not alone in seeking peace and forgiveness.

"Talking Bird. His name was Talking Bird, Roger Mac."

 

 

 


End file.
